


fond memories

by punkrouxls



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:42:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28727538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrouxls/pseuds/punkrouxls
Summary: Literally just posting this cuz I wrote it Sophomore year of HS and needed to put it somewhere lol.Memoir about my childhood written for 10th grade English.





	fond memories

The old house by the playground was a decrepit sight, but it was a beautifully decrepit sight when I first knew it. Our rickety old porch stairs made of molding mousey brown wood held the many footsteps of the various children who grew up in that house. In the icy cold winters, the trees that towered over our roof lost all their leaves and became bald, tall, caricatures of their former selves. Freezing winter nights and summers hotter than the Sun itself. Tag and hide and seek in the dark - we didn’t know each other but all that mattered was the camaraderie between us kids. There were no boundaries between us, no matter the color of our skin, our accents, our genders, or our ages. 

Mom immigrated to the States in three years before I was even a thought. This was the first house she’d ever bought. Even my older brother who was young when he moved into this house had spent his elementary to high school years here. Even when Dad’s job brought us to Florida, and we came back a year later. Even when our roof caved in, or when the Hurricane brought us to our knees, we still stuck together. Being away from this old house felt like my heart was being ripped out. I’d grown to know every inch of these old walls, every speck of dust inside. Our lives felt incomplete when we weren’t in that dusty old house. We are the happiest dust bunnies in there. 

The taste of soggy, hot Honey Nut Cheerios will always take me back to being nine years old, watching Sesame Street or Animaniacs reruns on my mother’s side of the bed. She’d always warm up my cereal knowing I prefer the feeling. Rushing to see all my favorite characters before it was time to walk to the bus stop. There was no better feeling than the rocky walkway on the way to the stop. No matter how cold or how hot it was, it was always home to me. It was just a matter of blankets in between us. Things were routine for us.  
My brother and I played outside on the baseball field in the cold. I was seven years old and there was no greater joy than the icy winter. We kicked around our beat-up soccer ball and joked around until it was dark outside. My brother was always someone I looked up to, someone I wanted to be like. The number 28 would always be synonymous with his name. Even after euphoric endeavors engraved epic events, he would always be my hero. I knew I’d never be as good as him because I suck at sports, but I never forgot that blizzardous day in the baseball field.

The smell of Mom’s cooking was the glue that held these memories together. She always made meat and beans with rice. Classic Hispanic food, but whenever my mom did it in our small kitchen she did it with love. It smelled like meat and spices, tangy air and a spicy hint to things. Ever since I was little all I could remember was waiting for the days she’d cook pork chops. Those days after school when I’d get my uniform messy from excitement. The fresh air from outside combined with the meat and hearty smell of beans always filled our kitchen. It never feels the same without her cooking. 

My room was painted pastel pink in the fourth grade, the typical young girls’ room. My mom decorated it with roses and pink patterns, an eyesore to a girl who mostly grew up a tomboy. It contrasted with the old, dull house. My parents in their late forties busied themselves with decorating the room of a nine-year-old girl. I always felt like a princess in a fairy tale with my canopy-topped headboard. I’d give anything to just feel nine years old again.


End file.
